Such a sad day.
Sad for the natural world on this fragile planet, to which the poet Mary Oliver, who has died today aged 83, lent a uniquely sensitive voice and vibrancy through her words. Sad for poetry itself.
Mary was of the great American nature writers in the tradition of Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman and Henry David Thoreau. She loved Rumi, Hafez, Shelley and Keats. I think we are privileged to glimpse the inner life of her heart, rooted in nature, in cadences of pure communication, while she was equally unafraid to call out the unconscious ravaging of the planet by the human species.
Mary herself has been such an inspiration to me and so many others worldwide. She believed poetry 'mustn't be fancy' but put her beautiful heart's simplicity and clarity into every soulful phrase. She somehow carried into her words the deepest silence and stillness of her spirituality, true wisdom and joyous celebration, reverence, wonder and delight. Where Mary the witness ends and where the being of each subject begins, will always be a delicious mystery to her readers everywhere.
She leaves the Earth richer for her having lived here. The spirit of nature had a beautiful champion in her. Through her poetry, she can never be forgotten.
An article here in the New York Times today, points out that 'perfect' was one of Mary's favourite adjectives.
Bless you, Mary, as you yourself were such a blessing.
May you rest now in perfect peace and rise in glory.
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